


When I Lost You, I Think I Lost My Guts Too

by Shadowolf19



Series: Avengers: Endgame - Alternative Takes [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Porn, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, POV Steve Rogers, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Smut, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-07 00:46:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18862333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowolf19/pseuds/Shadowolf19
Summary: Steve needs to let go. But he's not quite sure justhowto do that.(Angst pwp that I really shouldn't have written)





	When I Lost You, I Think I Lost My Guts Too

**Author's Note:**

> Contains HUGE Avengers: Endgame spoilers!  
> Do NOT read if you haven't watched the film and don't want to know what happens!  
> FYI: the last ten minutes of the film never happened for me.

After what happens – after the funeral, when everybody goes back to whatever life can be lead now, pretending the last five years never happened, because for half of the global population they actually _didn’t,_ and that’s just how it’s going to be – he doesn’t think about _it_ for the longest time, the thought never even entering his brain. How could it? It was enough to lose Tony for all of seven years – time he so wishes he could reclaim back, only it doesn’t work that way, does it? – but now that it’s _definitive_ , now that he can’t rely on the vague solace that at least the other is living a _good_ life, albeit without him in it – now he doesn’t know what to do with himself. The team is… well, over, of this he’s sure of. The Avengers always felt like his and Tony’s, and now that he’s gone – now that _Nat_ is gone too, and Thor has joined the Guardians, and Clint has retired _again_ – well, now _their version_ of the team is over. He plans to have a chat with Carol the next chance he gets – once he’s pulled himself together enough to go through a speech without having to stop and swallow incoming tears – but until then, he feels pretty confident no major threats are going to emerge. After all, beings everywhere are going to be _happy_ for getting their loved ones back, right?

“Steve?”

For some reason he doesn’t quite understand, it’s weird hearing his name being called out like this, in the open, as if it was a profanity, something that shouldn’t be said so _loudly_. “Hm?”

“Do you… want to spend the night maybe? We have plenty of spare rooms and…”

“Oh, no, thanks, I must be going,” he replies straightaway, just as if he had been rehearsing that line into his head over and over. Of course it’s a lie, he doesn’t have a home anymore – literally and _figuratively_ – but he can’t stay _here,_ he just _can’t_. Not only because it would be weird, but because he can’t _take_ it. The pictures on the walls, _his_ _smell –_ each of his senses is screaming at him to get the hell out of here as quickly as possible. He shouldn’t have been hanging around this long after returning to the present – once putting all the stones back to where they originally belonged – but he didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye to Pepper, so he took a seat on the front porch and waited for her to put Morgan to bed. That’s another reason why he can’t stay, even if he wanted to. The kid is too much, he actually can’t _stand_ looking at her. The resemblance is stunning, if not in the aspect definitely in her mannerism. She’s a constant reminder of what he’s lost. All those years apart, sure, but even more so the chance – the _true_ chance, as he’s come to realize now, always too late – at having a place even in _this_ time. Of course it’s only wishful thinking – or better, it _was_ – there was never any talk of having a family – damn, they hardly even spoke about becoming _official_ , and that was what, five, eight years ago now? Why does time have the annoying habit of melting years together whenever you’re not paying attention?

“Where?” she then asks, and damn, it’s a single word but hits him like a full-blown fist in the face.

“Bruce mentioned… he has a place. Offered to put Bucky, Sam and I up until we figure something out. With… you know, whatever happens now. Like do we pretend five years didn’t go by? What about money? And properties? And…” he stops before his words become an overflowing torrent. He shakes his head and tries to give Pepper a smile, which doesn’t quite appear. “Sorry. I’ll be okay.”

Another lie, probably. But at this point it doesn’t really matter anymore. _Maybe he_ was _right,_ he considers, _Maybe I_ am _a liar._

She’s not sold, of course, but pretends to be. “Okay, well, if you need anything – and I mean it – you know where to find us. Don’t be a stranger, Steve.”

“I won’t,” _again_. “I’ll be in touch,” and _again_. Seems like he just can’t stop.

They should hug, but they don’t. He’s scared of what his mind could conjure up in those few seconds. Unwanted memories. Painful feelings. He gives her the faintest of smiles and then he’s on his way.

 

Days turn into weeks which turn into months, and he still doesn’t think about _it_. It’s not like the thought enters into his brain and then gets dismissed, it just doesn’t happen _at all._ _I’m not depressed_ , he tells himself – mostly because he keeps a list of reasons in support of his statement – he just… feels okay as long as he keeps certain thoughts out of his mind. It takes a few, long weeks but eventually a global compromise is reached to reintegrate the finances and belongings of the snapped population back in place, and although extremely slowly, things go back to normal. Sam gets his apartment in D.C. back, and insists Steve moves in with Bucky and him. He doesn’t want to – he’s happy as he can be about his two best friends, however being around them all the time hits too close to _home._ But after Mjojnir accidentally destroys a couple of walls (thankfully not foundation ones) to get to him one night when Thor is staying with Bruce – Steve was just stretching in bed, trying to ignore the sounds coming from the other room – he realizes that _maybe_ that’s a safer solution. So in the morning he calls Sam to ask if it’s still okay to crash at his for a while, and all he gets in response is the loudest scream from Bucky in the background and a promise to “celebrate” – for the life of him he can’t understand what, however has the presence of spirit of not saying it out loud. He doesn’t have much to gather – he basically lost _everything_ when Thanos showed up at the compound – and as long as goodbyes go, all he does is scribbling a note thanking Bruce for his hospitality, again promising to keep in touch. He leaves it on the kitchen table and silently steps outside the apartment – the last thing he wants is for him and Thor to wake up and make a big scene out of it. He’s not going anywhere after all, not by the standards they’re used to nowadays anyway. Plus it seems to him all they’ve been doing recently is saying goodbye, and he’s grown really tired of them.

He arrives in D.C. in the early afternoon – trains are so fast nowadays that he doesn’t even have time to doze off before the conductor announces over the speakers they’re approaching their destination – and sure enough both of his friends are right there to meet him. He doesn’t really get a say of what happens next: although he tries to resist, his protests are shut down every step of the way, until he just resigns to the idea of letting them have all the decisional power for once. The first stop is a barbershop (“Really, Steve, the long hair is fine if you take care of it, but you _don’t,_ so it needs to go”), followed by a trip to the busiest mall he’s ever seen in recent years (“We knew you’d be paranoid about people recognizing you”) because apparently he needs some “more cheerful clothes”, as the two of them put it. He’d like to say he doesn’t _feel_ cheerful, but he doesn’t want them to realize just how much of an old man he’s actually become since they last saw one another. They finally drive to Sam’s apartment after that, much to his relief, as he was starting to fear just exactly what next stop would be. Unfortunately, it doesn’t last very long. Time to put down his bag with the new clothes, that his two friends march into the guest room and demand he gets dressed to the nines because “we’re going out!”. Of course, he moans and groans and protests that really, he’s not in the mood and he’d much rather stay in, but they’re unmovable from their intent and after a tiring ten minutes of back and forth he resigns to the idea and puts his new clothes on. He doesn’t ask where they’re going – it wouldn’t change a thing in the great scheme of things, or that’s what he thinks in that moment. Had he known what the _whole_ plan was, he would have probably enquired further and set some basic rules. But he doesn’t, staying mum for the whole ride downtown, staring blankly out of the car window, not really allowing his mind to wander off dangerous avenues.

“Sam to Steve, wake up dude. We’re here.”

He wasn’t asleep, but nevertheless feels the need to blink to make sure his eyes are seeing properly: just across the road there’s the entrance of a club, a big rainbow flag flying high just above it.

“What’s… ‘here’, exactly?” he asks, even if it’s a stupid question that gets treated as such, because he receives no answer. Sam and Bucky just get out of the car instead, and his oldest friend opens the door for him. Steve gives him a look between exasperated and resigned.

“Relax, it’s just because Sam and I blend better in here.”

It makes sense, obviously, but he’s still very doubtful about his own participation in this matter. Labels and he don’t really go along, never have, so he never stopped to consider what his not so secret affair with the other meant, way back when. And now, well, it simply doesn’t matter anymore, because what’s the point? It’s in the _past_ , a past he cannot change.

“Buck…” he starts to say, but two different hands close around each of his biceps, almost carrying him inside the club.

It’s relatively quiet – after all it’s before six on a weekday – and they play good enough music, nothing of that nonsensical pop that sounds all the same, with no meaning whatsoever. They sit on a table away from the dance floor, much to his relief, and Sam walks up to the counter to order some drinks. With him gone, Steve realizes he hasn’t had a proper conversation with either of them since… the first snap, of course, but also after the second one, his heart becoming whole as hearing their voices and seeing their faces again for just the shortest while before breaking all over again. And this time, Steve immediately _knew_ it was for good.

“So, um…”

“Steve…”

They speak at the same time, which makes him smile, earnestly albeit just a bit, because that always used to happen and it’s good to see that after all old habits are indeed hard to die.

“I’m fine…” he starts again, pre-emptying the question he’s sure was about to come.

“You’re really _not.”_

“I’m not,” he admits now, hiding behind the shadow his cap throws over his eyes, “but there’s nothing you or Sam can do about it. It’s just the way it is.”

“I know, because it has to be _you._ You need to let it go. For your own sanity.”

His friend is right, of course he is. Still.

“I can’t, Buck. He was special.”

“I know that…”

“No you don’t, because he didn’t show that side of him to anyone else but maybe four or five people.”

“He didn’t have to though. Not with me anyway. Steve… we almost got his best friend killed and the guy still showed up less than a day later wanting to help you. That told me all I needed to know about him.”

“Called you ‘Manchurian Candidate’…” he suddenly says, after a few silent seconds, the lightest scoff escaping his lips, “That’s a m—“

“Yes, I know, Steve. What do you think I’d been doing all that time in Wakanda, other than looking after sheep?”

“Right…”

They fall in another silence, and he knows it’s just a matter of time until Bucky voices his thoughts yet again, but luckily for him Sam comes back with plenty of drinks on a tray. Too many, in fact.

“I feel I’ve mentioned this before, but maybe you forgot. I _can’t_ get drunk. I’ve tried it before and it didn’t work.”

“You’re so dramatic. Who said we want you to get drunk? It just works out cheaper to buy a few at once because it’s two-for-one. I may have had my money back, but I’m still out of a job for a couple more weeks. So if there’s a deal, you bet your ass I’m taking it.”

As long as explanations go, it sounds quite credible, so he doesn’t protest any further even if he’s not sold. Instead he grabs what looks like a pint of beer and gently clinks his friends’ glasses before swallowing half of the alcohol in one go. What’s the point in savoring your drink when it’s not going to change the effect it has on you? Still, as the beer makes its way into his stomach, he has to admit feeling a bit funny, although he can’t really elaborate on that.

“What is this, Sam?”

“Double IPA. Jesus, Steve, when was the last time you went out?”

It’s not a loaded question – it _shouldn’t_ – and still it forces him to go down memory lane to find an answer, the one place he really needs to steer away from. It’s got to be before the snap, because after… after it’s like he wasn’t _alive_ , not in any way that counts. But before that he was a _fugitive_ for two whole ass years, which means what, 2015? Early 2016? And then, all of a sudden, a flashback hits him with the energy of a lightning. A beach whose name he can’t remember right now, in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. The sun on his face and the sound of the waves going back and forth, listlessly, the only reminder of time passing in a stillness that he wishes could return to him, along with the person he was sharing those moments with.

“It’s been a while,” he chimes skittishly, throwing the rest of the beer down his throat.

 

Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s his dire need of _having to_ let loose, maybe it’s just placebo effect, but for the first time since the serum got injected into his veins, decades ago, he’s drunk. Or, at the very least, he _feels_ it. Though even like this, even with his defenses lowered, he still doesn’t think about _it_ , he just _can’t_. Too painful. As the hours start piling up and he keeps drinking, as he watches Bucky and Sam making their way to the dance floor, as the club slowly but steadily becomes more and more packed, Steve can feel his body starting to protest, almost aching for a contact that has been missing for far too long – he doesn’t even want to _quantify_ it how loud, because he intuitively knows the answer.

“What can I get you, boss?” the bartender asks, and his mind automatically goes to the _‘Oh, no, he’s the boss,’_ and the _‘I hope you know, you’re the boss of me, the only one.’_ He sighs deeply. Why do words become so loaded with meanings? Why can’t they just exist in a vacuum?

“Strongest cocktail you can,” he replies, slipping a hand into his back pocket to get ahold of his wallet. But before he can grab it, an arm gently hugs his waist, making his eyes widen with surprise and mixed feelings surge into his stomach. It’s rejection and guilt and sickness, but also need for intimacy and release and an anger he’s never actually dealt with.

“My treat, handsome,” the stranger offers, and Steve hates it but doesn’t say no because one drink has never done any harm, right?

“Well, thank you…?”

“Mark. And you are?”

“Steve,” he replies automatically, but Mark’s reply sends alarm bells ringing into his head.

“Yeah, I thought so…”

“Ho-How come?”

“Dunno. You look like a Steve. Do I look like a Mark?”

A sigh of relief escapes his mouth. He hasn’t been made, this is just club chatter. He’s still just a man amongst others. No need to panic.

“I really wouldn’t know…”

Mark giggles. It’s a nice sound – not too high-pitched, not too loud, and it makes his eyes smile too. Still, it doesn’t fill Steve’s heart like it’s supposed to.

“Gotta be honest with you, Steve. Your conversational skills kinda suck.”

“Oh, believe me, I _know_ ,” he snickers, taking a sip the moment the bartender puts the cocktail in front of him.

“You’re lucky though because you’re cute and silent. Usually with the muscular types is all a ‘me, me, me’, but I bet I’d have to pull every single word out of you or you just wouldn’t offer.”

Steve offers him a smile – small but honest, all that he can manage – and gives a brief nod. The words that follow are not exactly _his_ , although right now he couldn’t say _whose_ are they: “And which kind are _you_ , Mark?”

The other smirks – he can tell his remark has hit the target – and takes a sip from Steve’s cocktail, blinking as tasting how _strong_ it is but replying without wasting another second: “The type who likes introvert blondes drinking as if there’s no tomorrow.”

Steve snuffs, really wishing the guy hadn’t touched his drink without asking – he doesn’t know why it bothers him, but it really does – and swallows the rest of the liquid to prevent both answering the question and the accident to happen a second time. Mark gives him a long glance, and just as Steve is about to take his leave the guy grabs his hand and pulls it to make him stand up.

“Give me a dance, would you? Just one. And then I promise I’ll leave you alone, if that’s what you want.”

“I don’t dance,” he replies, heart already beating faster than normal at the idea. He’s only danced with two partners in his whole life, and he’s not about to add a third to the mix, _especially_ a perfect stranger who happened to ask him, just like that. As if it wasn’t a big deal.

But then Mark says a line that hits him in the guts, and he finds himself standing up to follow him to the dance floor: “Come _on._ What have you got to lose?”

 

It’s only then that he starts thinking about _it_ again. As foreign hands slowly slide down his hips, and Mark steps closer and closer until eventually his lips land on Steve’s, the thought re-emerges into his mind after _months_. It’s unwanted and painful and he wishes so much he could just push it away but he _can’t_ , his body reclaiming attention, acting as if it had its own mind. And so he finds himself not only reciprocating the kiss, but holding Mark closer, almost possessively, although he doesn’t understand _why_. As they make their way out of the club and into the lobby of a nearby hotel, _it_ becomes the only thing he can think about. The moment the bedroom door shuts, he leans against the wall, grabs the collar of Mark’s shirt, pulling the stranger onto him to kiss him hungrily, convinced the quicker his movements, the less chances his brain has to regain control.

“Well, maybe you ain’t that shy after all…” comes the comment, and he hates it so much because this is _not_ him, albeit it _has to be_ , to some degree at least.

“Blow me,” he then hears his own voice demanding, almost muttered between his teeth, as if it was a challenge.

“As you wish, _boss_.”

There’s that word again. It drives him _insane_ , makes him wish he could just obliterate it from every language. Why is everybody so keen on calling him _that_ today? Why can’t he be left alone with his pain? Why…

But before another silent question can take form into his brain, a shiver runs down his whole body as his belt first and his zip then get undone, exposing his nakedness.

“Someone is eager…” Mark observes just before taking him with his mouth, whole, and Steve hates everything. His body, for not listening to his brain. The guy on his knees in front of him, for giving him a pleasure he doesn’t want nor feel like he _deserves_. But most of all he hates himself, for not being enough.

It doesn’t take long – that’s what happens when you don’t think about _it_ for this long – or maybe the stranger is _this_ good, what with his tongue running slowly and precisely along its length just before stopping on the tip, or the way he’s holding his balls tight, as to _dare him_ to lose control. But it’s not time, not _yet_ , because now that the reality of the situation is hitting him, he can feel his mind quickly slipping away, letting his body being in command for once. So just as he’s about to come he places a hand on top of Mark’s head, pushing himself out of his mouth and throwing a quick glance down.

“Looks like I’m not the only one who’s eager…” he comments, hating himself for it, a bit more as other words come out of his mouth. “Let’s give you what you’ve been wanting all along, shall we?”

Oh yes, he absolutely despises himself right now. He doesn’t _talk_ like this, _never_ , so why now it seems he just can’t _stop_? _Because I’m desperate_ , he realizes, not without a pinch of panic, _and I don’t know what to do about it. This is something I don’t have a_ strategy _to deal with. And without one, I’m lost._

Steve doesn’t have any first hand experience with the gay scene – not just because he hates labels, but mostly because he’s never needed to, as people he’s been intimate with… well, _they_ found _him_ , so to speak. Nevertheless, information about it has reached him secondhand, and he remembers enough to pick up on the clues he’s collected throughout the night. He takes his t-shirt off as he walks quickly to the bed where Mark is already lying, entirely naked – _when has that happened?_ – lying on his elbows, legs spread to reveal his butthole, dick dangling hard between them. Yeah, Steve read the clues correctly alright. He smirks without any joy, and if he could see himself in the mirror he wouldn’t be able to recognize himself.

He should prep the guy – ask for some lube which he surely has somewhere, maybe stroke him a little too, all steps that he knows by heart because of so much experience – but his head is not working properly and his body _demands_ , almost _screaming_ at him. So he just grabs the other body by the hips and pushes himself inside the hole, finding it looser than anticipated.

“F-Fuck…” Mark groans, but before Steve can grow concerned, the other adds: “I _knew_ you liked it _raw_ …” and he gives a satisfied grin back to him.

Steve hates it, although he doesn’t quite know _why,_ so he closes his eyes as he starts pounding inside the stranger’s body, and soon Mark’s moans begin to echo inside the room, covering his own grunts, telling just how _much_ he likes it. Steve stays silent – maybe the only one of his traits still surviving this evening – not even knowing whether he’s enjoying this or not (although if he was able to think right now he would realize that having to ask this question is indicator enough of its answer). It doesn’t matter though – nothing does anymore, maybe never will again – because he’s doing this only out of disgust for himself, no point in hiding the truth. He keeps his eyes shut as he hits Mark’s prostate, sending the guy in what sounds like ecstasy, pace increasing with every thrust – he can’t _wait_ until it’s all over.

“Harder, Steve, go _harder_!” the stranger moans as he starts stroking his own dick, but Steve’s eyes open at the sound of his own name being called out like this and for a moment he completely freezes in his position. Mark doesn’t seem to notice – if he does, he gives no sign of it – and Steve obeys to his request, but his mind has now taken control again, demanding attention. His name on the guy’s lips sounded weird, misplaced. _Wrong_. But it’s not just that. It’s that for a fraction of a second – exactly what took him to realize what just happened – he was about to reply. _“Are you sure, Tony? I don’t want to hurt you…”_ he almost said, which is the same sentence he used to say every single time they had sex, no matter how frequent it had become at one point. Because he couldn’t risk causing him _pain_ , he would never forgive himself if he did… except that’s _exactly_ what he ended up doing, isn’t it? Him with his stubbornness. Destroying every good thing that ever happened to him. He shivers, for a second returning to the present and his surroundings. What is he doing? This is stupid, doesn’t make any sense. It’s not going to _solve_ anything, or fill the big void that has substituted his heart. Nothing can. That’s the problem.

He keeps moving, faster but not harder, because he doesn’t feel anything anymore: not the urge from his body, _certainly_ not pleasure, maybe not even the pain of his loss. He’s just… empty.

“I’m gonna cum!” Mark groans, and a moment later he does, going stiff against his body. Steve briefly closes his eyes, as if to give the other some privacy – they’re strangers after all – then he quickly pulls out of him, taking a step back, heart beating fast against his chest, for reasons unknown to him. And all of a sudden, he feels the urge to run.

“He-hey, you didn’t have to  st— what are you _doing_?”

What he’s doing is getting dressed again. Briefs, trousers and t-shirt are back on his body in less then half a minute, and for once it’s not an effect of the serum.

“Sorry, you seem like a nice guy but I need—“

“I’ll suck you off, you like that, don’t you? You want me to swallow it? Got no problem with that either, lemme do that for you…”

Mark grabs his asscheek to make him stay – it’s an innocent move, especially considering his cock was right inside of the other just a minute ago – but it sends Steve over the edge.

“Take your fucking hand away!” he screams, turning so fast that Mark barely realizes the five fingers that hit his cheek, loud and hard. For a second they just stare at each other, both in disbelief, then to prevent anything worse from happening Steve shakes his head and mumbles an apology before rushing out of the room first and the hotel just a minute later.

Outside it’s started to rain, but he doesn’t even notice as his clothes become damp, his hair soaking wet. The tears that run across his cheeks are undistinguishable from the drops coming from the clouds above. All he can think about is Tony. His body and his smell and his eyes that always seemed to read right through him. His smirks full of tease whenever they were with other people or in public, his genuine and soft smiles that he reserved for him only, in the privacy and safety of their bedroom. It’s time and gestures and moments gone forever, and just because he knows that it doesn’t mean that he’s okay with it, or that it hurts any less. If anything, it’s tearing him from the inside out, driving him to madness at the prospect of never being _whole_ again.

He stops, eventually. Short of breath, he looks up to the sky and screams out all of his pain before collapsing on his knees and taking his head into the palm of his hands.

If only he could do it all again, he’d grab Tony’s hand on the battlefield just before he snapped his fingers. Maybe that would have worked, and they’d both be alive right now. Or maybe it wouldn’t have, and they’d have both been drained out of all of their energy, and drawn their last breath in unison, two heroes fallen to protect the Earth.

Anything but this.

Because this?

This is not living.

This is the worst form of hell.

**Author's Note:**

> In my mind, this started as a "quick, angst pwp". It turned into something probably too long for its own good. As it might seem evident by now, I have a lot of opinions about Endgame, so I've decided to create [an specific series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1363885) to collect the fics that deal with its aftermath.
> 
> The title comes from [Drive All Night](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r8qpTL1wxGQ) by Bruce Springsteen.
> 
> I'm now taking commissions! So if you like my style and would like to request a fic, feel free to drop me a dm or buy me a ko-fi [here](https://ko-fi.com/shadowolf19), and I'll get to it asap :)
> 
> Come find me on [Tumblr](http://shadowolf19.tumblr.com) or on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Shadowolf19) if you want to chat!


End file.
